


gold cage, hostage to my feelings

by safeandsound13sreputationera (safeandsound13)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Crack, F/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, omg they were stepsiblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23549092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13sreputationera
Summary: Lonely and away at college, Clarke swipes right on her step-brother as a joke.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 74
Kudos: 411
Collections: Bellarke smut





	gold cage, hostage to my feelings

**Author's Note:**

> well. mars has corrupted me. blame them.

Clarke is so lonely. 

It’s an unfamiliar feeling to her. She _likes_ being by herself most of the time, prefers it even. It’s just, tonight, she was reminded that sometimes it’s not so bad, to be with people. She misses having adult conversations, to share laughter with someone, longs to be _touched_.

Not just fucking lonely. She’s really overbearingly, frustratedly _horny_. 

Being horny makes her stupid, so stupidly, she’d decided to go to one of the frat parties advertised around campus as the ‘ _best one yet_ ’. Of course she was aware they said that about every single one, but it was Friday and she was feeling pathetic enough to convince herself it would be enjoyable. 

Clarke is perpetually bad at making friends, has a handful total, and the only one she’d made in three years of college so far was Monty, who just so happened to be currently doing an entire semester abroad. 

She was aware of her reputation. First year, she was intense, and uptight, and devoted to proving herself on all fronts. To herself, and unfortunately her mother. She didn’t just need to do good, she needed to be the best. Her Bio lab partner Monty was the one who took a chance on her and helped her mellow out a little. (That, and his steadfast supply of weed brownies. The best freshman fifteen ever.)

Now he was gone, it been a while since she had done anything _fun_. Instagram told her she was weird for doing homework after eight pm on a weekend, and when she found herself regretting deleting Finn’s tasteless nudes after they broke it off, she decided enough was enough. She was going to put herself out there. 

The party blew, though. 

Clarke stood in a corner clutching a red solo cup of crappy wine cooler for over half an hour — overheated, overstimulated and completely over watching fellow students blow off steam by dancing off-beat, drinking themselves silly and hooking up with strangers. 

The latter is what got her _most_ frustrated. She needed to get laid, but she belatedly figured out she didn’t need to be at a party to do that. Especially not one filled with frat boys and bratty socialites she might run into at Organic Chemistry tomorrow. 

So now she’s here, on the couch of her off-campus one bedroom apartment her mom’s paying for, in her pyjamas, getting drunk on bad wine and mercilessly swiping through her old Tinder account. 

  
After the bad CW drama worthy fiasco that was Finn and his other girlfriend last fall, and then older, supposedly more mature Lexa surprise breaking her heart over some stupid fucking lawyer job on the other side of the country right before spring break — she had sworn off dating. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Now it’s almost summer and so far, she’s only hooked up with Niylah from pottery class at the local arts centre a few times. Eventually the mature blonde ended up ditching her for an actual girlfriend, which was fair enough, because Clarke wasn’t really willing to commit to anyone at this point in her life. However, the break-up sex was over two months ago by now and her skin was itching for some human contact. 

It didn’t need to be life-changing, or long, for that matter, so the decision was easily made while she was trying to convince herself she wouldn’t be lame for leaving a party before eleven pm. Tinder always has a steady supply of girls and boys however, and yeah, she’ll have to fight her way through about half-a-dozen creepy threeway offers (the side effects of being bi) before finding a possible non-serial killing hook-up she’d be willing to meet at a public place and have them badly finger her a quarter to completion on the backseat of her car. 

Too much trouble for a subpar outcome, really, she realized once she was actually doing it. Fifteen minutes in, and she’s definitely more than tipsy at this point, probably too lazy to change out of her pjs if she did find a perfect match, and halfway content with just using one of her toys tonight. So mostly she’s just fucking around on the app and getting a good laugh out of it. Indulging bad pick-up lines, trolling fethisists, and well, swiping right on her step-brother. 

At first when she read _Bellamy, 26 — whatever the hell you want me to be,_ Clarke had cringed. She studied the one picture he had up for a moment, teeth sliding over her bottom lip thoughtfully. It was one probably taken at one of his countless jobs, of him behind some bar in a tight black t-shirt, broad shoulders and sturdy biceps on full display, his curls a carefully styled mess and his smile a little bit too blinding for her to not roll her eyes at him. _Then_ her deluded, booze-hazy brain somehow figured it’d be funny if she screen-recorded herself swiping right and then sent it to her step-sister. 

_Absolutely hilarious_ , she reminds herself, when his name pops up as a match. Her head swims and her heart tries to pound it’s way out of her ribcage with force and her hands only lightly tremble as she clicks on her list of matches, because _what the fuck?_ This has to be a mistake, a colossal one, there isn’t really any other explanation. Upon seeing the little red dot by his name, she check the preview of the conversation and realizes he’d sent her a message. _Passably cute?_

Clarke tosses her phone aside in favor of another drink, leaning over to grab the bottle of wine off her coffee table. She tops off her glass and then downs half of it in one go, shaking her head to herself. She’s being stupid. Obviously it was an accident. He complains about his butter fingers all the time. It’s just weirder for the both of them if she doesn’t give him the chance to explain, or at least tells him it was a bad joke, right? 

Folding her legs back underneath herself, she pulls her phone back out from in between the couch cushions, resting the rim of her glass against her lips as she types out a reply. 

_wdym?_

_Your bio. It says passably cute_

_You mean to tell me you think your sister is more than passably cute?_

_Step sister_

She can just imagine the aggravated look on his face and even feels partly sorry she’s not there to witness it in it’s full glory. Clarke grins to herself, chewing on the darkly painted fingernail of the hand still wrapped around the glass absentmindedly, not one to pass up on the opportunity to drag this out and make fun of him. Get him a little heated like he always does her.

_Don’t change the subject. Why did you swipe right on your sister?!_

_This works both ways, princess_

_I was gonna send O a screen recording_

_You know, creep her out_

_Because I’m hilarious_

_What’s your excuse?_

The illustrious three dots appear on the screen, and Clarke waits patiently. This was actually more fun than leading on a rando ‘ _nice guy_ ’ to see how long it would take for him to snap and call her a bitch. She usually never gets the upper hand on Bellamy. 

Around the time when Clarke turned sixteen, her mom met Marcus at some conference for SES-related diseases and they were married within the next six months. Since Marcus was on his way to become a senator and her mom could be a doctor _anywhere_ , Clarke was forced to upheave her entire life and move to the other side of the country. 

Marcus had two children of his own, half-siblings, Octavia and Bellamy. Octavia was just ten years old, strong-willed and energetic but obviously spoiled. She’d been on her own with Marcus ever since her mom died when she was just a toddler. His son only recently moved out of his mother’s house and begrudgingly in with the Kanes. Marcus had been trying to mend their relationship for years after abandoning Bellamy’s mother for another woman, and the only reason he had finally given in was because he found out he had a sister. 

To say things were strained was an understatement. Clarke was hormonal, and pissed at the world for having to move away from her best friend Wells, and resentful with her mom for replacing her dad. Bellamy didn’t trust Kane and had a lot of unresolved anger issues because of — but not limited to — his father, never failed to remind everyone but Octavia he’d rather be anywhere but with them, and seemed to take most of it out on Clarke. The perfect representation of all the things he hated about the life he never got, everything handed to her on platter, never having worked a day in her life. 

On top of that, Octavia was bad at sharing, and their newlywed parents were trying to navigate their busy jobs and new at-home dynamic and failing terribly. The house was like a powderkeg for the two years before she went off to college. 

Things eventually settled, and she wouldn’t call them close now, but they were all trying. Clarke learned to communicate any festering feelings towards them rather than pushing them away, Octavia realized more people in the house could work in her advantage as long as she wrapped them around her finger like she had her dad, Marcus lost his second campaign in a row so ended up spending some actual time with his son and a therapist, her mom finally started treating her like a person instead of one of her accomplishments, and Bellamy moved out of his room and into the pool house, and no longer used every holiday and long-weekend as an excuse to run off to his mom. Distance was the best thing to ever happen to the Griffin-Kane-Blake family. 

Her eyebrows jump as his reply shows up on the bottom of the screen. Interesting. 

_Wasn’t really looking at your face_

_More your other assets_

Yes, technically she knew it was a less-than-subtle dig at her only having low-cut tops and bikini pics up on her profile. (Hey, she looked good in them and it wasn’t like she dusted off the app to engage in any intellectually stimulating conversations.) Bellamy was probably smirking to himself for this classy comeback, just gloating in the fact he got to call her a bimbo in between the lines. But, technically, the story didn’t add up. Although she was slightly drunk, she wasn’t stupid, and usually he wasn’t either. 

_Still, Bellamy..._

She tsks out loud to herself, knowing she has him right where she wants to. A small part of her surprised even, that this was the best he could come up with. Something inside of her aches, and she wants to find out where this could go. 

_How many 21yo blonde female Clarkes you know?_

The bubbles appear again, and Clarke puts her glass down on the side table, snuggling backwards into the couch. Her limbs feel like jello, but there’s something exciting jittering under the surface. She’s feeling just a tiny little bit smug. This should be good.

_Is it too late to change my answer to it was an accident?_

_Yes._

_Okay you got me_

_I’ve been into my step sister for years now_

_And I thought Tinder was the place_

_Finally make my grand romantic gesture and all_

Clarke snickers to herself, shaking her head lightly. He’s a fucking idiot. The lengths he will go to to see her careful composure break for even just the flash of a second, always trying to coax a surprised laugh out of her, or embolden a heated argument. 

One time, after another college-major fueled discussion with her mother, she found him out by the pool and he’d offered her her first sip of beer. The white plastic chairs had stuck uncomfortably to the humid skin of the back of her thighs, and their faces were only lit in the darkness by the blue hues of the pool lights reflected of the water, but it was the first time anyone in the house treated her like an adult. He didn’t make her feel silly for considering an art major as a serious option, and made fun of Abby’s serious faces and Marcus pacifying one-liners until she felt weightless from laughing so much. For the first time in a long while, she felt hopeful, that someday she might call this mansion a home yet. 

It was a nice night, until he picked a fight about the car Marcus had bought her as a graduation gift. Frustrated with the disappointment thrumming hollowly in her chest despite knowing better by now, and impossibly exasperated with the way the back of her eyes stung with tears, she’d curled her hands into fists and asked him why he always had to ruin it. 

A beat, a slight spring breeze sweeping a few strands of hair away from her face, and he’d brushed his thumb across her flushed cheekbone, smirk growing on his face as he condescendingly told her, “Because you look so cute when you’re angry.”

This time, she wasn’t going to break just like that, though.

_Go on..._

_Oh you’ve heard it before_

_Totally swiped right on my step sister on purpose_

_Hoping she’d do the same and I’d finally be able to come clean_

_About her being the starring role in all of my wet dreams_

She is never going to let him live this down. She’ll get him Folger coffee for Christmas, or a Life With Derek dvd-box set, or something. It’ll be a funny, albeit borderline fucked up, inside joke, but it could be the thing that finally makes them bond in a way they have with the rest of their family. 

Truth is, she hasn’t really seen Bellamy over an extended period of time since she left for college. Her first summer back, he spent most of it at his moms and in the week he was home, he worked over a hundred hours and was passed out for the rest. And last summer she stayed in Polis for an internship job. Everyone came out to see her for a long weekend, except him. Safe from the occasional holiday where the height of their interaction was him asking her to pass the bread, they mostly avoided each other.

It bothered her a little. Whenever she saw him make his fifth appearance on Octavia’s Snapchat story in a week, a part of her longed for the same kind of acceptance, same kind of belonging. The younger girl was in a continuous text thread with her, asking for advice on things like eyeliner and boys (much older, experienced boys that her brother would kill if he knew about), but Octavia and Bellamy were close in a way Clarke’s only ever been with Wells. He thought the world of her, and she knew it. 

And, despite there still being a fair amount of yelling involved, Bellamy no longer continuously glared at Clarke if they were in the same room. Although she would hardly even call them friends. He put up with her but there was still an air of unease surrounding the two of them, something that kept her from hugging him hello or goodbye in the same way she would Octavia. 

For some reason, his opinion held an immeasurable amount of weight to her. She always saw them as the two outsiders, neither of them truly belonging in this picture perfect little family her mom and his dad had tried to create. Her mom was seeing this as her second chance at the life she always wanted, and for most of his life Marcus had been ashamed of Bellamy. She thought that at least if she never fit in with the rest, she could with him. 

Which is part of the reason she thinks it stings so badly, that he never tried with her like he did with Octavia. Made her wonder why she wasn’t enough for him. What was wrong with her.

The fact she’s wholeheartedly indulging him in the weird turn their TInder conversation has taken, probably a lot of things. 

_Oh really?_

_ALL of them?_

_Haha yeah you’re so sexy Clarke_

_Can’t help myself or my subconscious_

Clarke snorts to herself, closing the app and pulling up his name on iMessage. Their last text exchange is from over four months ago. He asked her if she knew where his favorite old Paramore shirt was, and she never replied. Not because she suddenly didn’t remember that she accidentally took it with her to campus to sleep in, but because she didn’t want him to make a big deal out of it and turn it into a never-ending sanctimonious lecture on taking people’s belongings without asking like he was personally re-inventing the proletariat versus the bourgeoisie. For someone who always threats her like she thinks she’s better than him, he can be one hell of a patronizing ass. 

Biting her lip to keep from laughing at her own joke, she pulls down her fuzzy socks a little, showing off her ankle as she snaps a pic of it. Her skin buzzes with anticipation. This might be a dangerous tread to line for some people, but not them. They so obviously dislike each other, they’re above all that stuff. 

_Don’t get too turned on_

_This is why you’re my favorite sister_

Clarke’s laugh catches her by surprise, and she feels light and floaty and warm as she drags her shirt down her arm to capture the absolute sexiness that is a bare shoulder. She makes sure to keep her pink, wine-stained bottom lip in her frame just enough for him to see her sink her teeth into it teasingly. 

_Wow, yeah, you got me so hard, Clarke_

_Oh Bellamy_

_Whatever will you do to me with that big, hard cock?_

She rolls her eyes at the cheap vulgarity some people actually seem to enjoy, all though she has to cross and uncross her legs a few times while typing, trying to get more comfortable on the couch as she blindly reaches for her glass, slamming back the rest of it. Clarke attempts to run a hand through her hair, but once she gets caught on a knot she gives up. Too keyed-up, distracted eyes sharp on her phone. 

His reply is almost instant, and she wonders what he is doing. He actually enjoys going out, seeing his friends and hitting on girls, and Friday seems like the prime time to do that. Maybe that’s why he was on Tinder in the first place.

_I don’t think you’re ready to hear it_

_I’m sure I can take it, daddy_

She’ll be the first to admit the whole ‘daddy’ thing is maybe a little too on the nose, and possibly far, but she’s feels like she’s at the point of no return already. Her skin is flushed, and her breathing a little uneven at the sheer wrongness of this all. Even if it’s just a joke. He’s her _—_ _family._

The bubbles appear, and disappear a few times and Clarke is practically squirming on the couch. She’s not entirely sure where he’ll take this conversation next and it’s equal parts scary and thrilling. 

_First I’ll get you ready_

_With my hands_

_My mouth_

_Then I’ll use my cock_

_Split you wide open_

_Make sure you’re ruined for other men and women forever_

_Haha_

Her breath actually stutters in her chest. Before she can push the images he so viscerally conjured away, her flooded mind flashes to his big, rough hands that could easily hold her down. Those golden brown abs, never not on display whenever there’s even a single ray of sun out. His full lips, that stupid cocky smirk always playing on them. 

_Fuck_ , she realizes, swallowing heavily. A steady hum of arousal surges through her body. She’s _actually_ fucking turned on. This is insane. Wrong. _Bad_. 

This can’t be happening. It’s the booze. The fact she can’t stand him and he’s playing a game that she desperately wants to beat him at. It’s not him, it’s just the words he’s saying. And the hormones. It’s the hormones, too. She’s horny and it’s been months and she must be ovulating. Still, a small voice in the back her mind reminds her, is that a reason to be attracted to her step _brother_? While she’s having an existential crisis, it must’ve taken her a while to reply, because her phone screen has gone dark, only drawing back her attention when it buzzes in her lap. 

_Told you you couldn’t take it_

Swallowing her pride, she tightens her hands around her phone as she types out a reply. He’s obviously leaning into the joke, waiting for her to chicken out first. She can’t let him win, now can she? She’s tougher than that.

_I’m still here_

_You were never a slow reader, princess._

_Maybe attend a class every once in a while_

_Go to a few less parties?_

He knows she would never miss a class willingly. He’s one to talk, always telling her to loosen up and have some fun. And that fucking nickname, like he isn’t leeching of Kane’s wealth either. She squeezes her legs tighter together. Asshole. 

_I don’t need to go to class to get straight A’s_

_That’s pretty hot_

_What else_

_What?_

_What else would you do?_

_Hahaha_

_I’m serious_

_Aren’t you always?_

Clarke pauses, knowing this is a make or break it moment. Yes, she’s turned on, but she can still turn this around and never have him know. But, a part of her wants to keep pushing, see how far he’ll let this go. That part wins tonight.

_Don’t tell me you’re not hard_

_Thinking about me_

_Can’t tell you that_

Her lips part slightly as she sucks in a sharp breath, cheeks feeling like they’re on fire. She hesitates again, mind stewing it over repeatedly although there’s no way to deny the dampness between her thighs. She’s lost all moral high ground, possibly forever. Her fingers trail down her stomach, dragging up her shirt in the process. Her lower belly flips.

_Show me then._

Within a minute an image is waiting for her and it takes her several moments to process it completely. It’s a lot. _Fuck_. She’s fucked. She wants to get fucked. By this particular dick staring back at her from the top of his boxers, tan fist wrapped around the base, thick head glistening in the dim lighting. The dick that belongs to her stepbrother. She’s really lost it. 

_Only fair to return the favor_

_I’ve given you two legendary shots already_

_I’m going to need a little more from you first_

There’s no witty comeback, just another picture that pops up on her screen within thirty seconds, like he’s aching for it as much as her. A wave of pure heat spreads from her face to her core, blood rushing and throbbing in places she desperately is trying to ignore. 

She shouldn’t look. She should turn off her phone, go to sleep. Pretend this never happened and hope she can salvage what's left of their relationship after this. But _God_ , does she just want to ruin it forever.

This time the angle is from higher up. Clarke can tell he’s on his bed, because she recognizes the stupid old striped comforter from Target he’s had forever, and he’s lost the boxers. From this viewpoint, she can tell he’s shirtless, thick and curved cock standing proud against his lower abdomen. 

It should bother her more that he really does have a justified reason to be so arrogant all the damn time. 

Delirious with want and before she can even fully register it, Clarke’s dragging her shirt over her head and trying to press both of her tits together with one hand. She’s barely able to conceal her nipples, but it’s not like she actually cares about that. Just wants to tease him a little, like he’s doing her.

_Fuck_

_Are you touching yourself?_

Hoarsely, Clarke lets out a little whiny moan, snapping another pic of her fingers dipping below the waistband of her silk sleeping shorts. She slips a finger inside of her warmth before pulling back out and spreading her slick across her slit. She’s ridiculously wet, not really sure if that makes it better or worse. Far past the point of caring anyway.

_Good_

_Me too_

_How many fingers?_

_One_

A beat, and figuring out the less-than-ideal one-handed texting position while trying to get herself off simultaneously, and she adds,

_Two_

_You can take one more_

A little shakily, Clarke adds another finger, imagines they’re his even if it’s not really the same. She can feel pleasure blooming deep inside of her. Not quite to the point of no return, but very close, too close for comfort. She can hear the urgent whimpers spilling from her lips, hips desperately seeking more friction as she bucks up against her own hand. 

_Jesus you’re driving me crazy_

Another picture pops up, his cock glistening with what she guesses is spit as he works it over, and Clarke knows this is bad, so bad, but she can’t stop. How many times has he told her that in person? That she drives him crazy? Never this eager, she tells herself. She thinks of his dark eyes, his firm chest, his deep voice. Imagines him here with her, looking at her, touching her, encouraging her. Her bare skin hot, and humming pleasantly, just the thought of him making her clench down on her fingers, hard. 

Doing this on a screen makes it less real, almost. Like they’re just two strangers in a contained vacuum of reality, that only exists for them tonight and is separate from their own world. Makes it easy to lose herself in it.

_Wish I was there to touch you_

_Give your tits some love for me_

_Show me_

Clarke slows down the tempo of her pumps, taking her fingers out to rub a few lazy circles over her clit. She brings up her wet fingers to pinch her nipples, flick over them, and squeeze the mounds tightly to the point she almost forgets to take the picture with her free hand. When she finally does, his response is priceless, and it only spurs her on further. 

_Fuck Clarke_

_You’re gonna make me come_

There’s another string of messages with words she can’t make out, vision hazy everywhere but on the attached image. His hand and treasure trail covered in drops of his sticky cum, cock still half-hard. Realizing she did that, knowing it in the very core of her being, and she’s gone, over the edge, her entire body shaking as her limbs give out, heat and pleasure flowing in waves up her stomach and down her thighs. 

_You’re so fucking hot_

_Shit Clarke_

_Wish I could have a taste_

She struggles to keep her eyes open, his words prolonging her orgasm, or building it up again, she’s not sure. Her skin feels too small, little aftershocks still sizzling up her spine. She takes a minute to recover before typing out a final reply. 

_Maybe next time_

Completely satiated, it doesn’t take long for her to doze off into a deep slumber. A lucky break, because it’s unusual, how easily she is fighting off any lingering thoughts about what the fuck just happened. Thoughts that would’ve surely kept her awake any other day. 

In the morning, she feels guilty and completely deserving of the massive hangover currently making her head pound and stomach churn with every small movement, but nothing makes her as sick as the text in her inbox waiting for her. 

**Abby Griffin [07:03 AM]**

> _Clarke! Hope you’re good and enjoying your classes. So excited to see you again next weekend. I emailed you the boarding passes yesterday. Me and Marcus have a special announcement to make. I just know you will like it! Say hi to professor Sydney for me. Love you, honey xx_

* * *

A week and half later, Clarke finds herself at a dinner table with her family. 

She’d been trying to talk herself out of coming for just as long, but her mom pulled out all the guilt tripping cards (ranging from ‘ _Octavia is so excited to finally see you again'_ to ‘ _you haven’t been here in months, I see you have other priorities_ ’) and what excuse was she supposed to give?

The train tickets for the three hour ride home were innocently blinking at her in her inbox every time she checked her email, as if they wouldn’t lead her straight to the highway to hell. Her mother was close with Professor Sydney, so she couldn’t say she had to stay home to catch up on her TA duties, nor could she allege she had to study when she literally _just_ wrapped up midterms. Claiming illness after begging to get out of it for over a week would be too obvious, and she’d pay for it later one way or another. Was she supposed to be honest, tell her mother she couldn’t make it to dinner because she saw her step-brother’s dick while getting herself off and she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since?

Yes, she's considered changing her name and dropping off the face of the earth forever (really Gone Girl that shit but without all the murder), but in the end she figured she and Bellamy were both adults and they could act like it. 

It was better to face it head-on anyway, she figured. If she kept postponing it, it would just start festering and festering until they could never crawl their way out of the ‘ _I’ve seen you naked_ ’ grave they dug themselves. The longer they didn’t own up to this, the harder it would be to do it. 

So she doesn’t know exactly _why_ it pissed her off so much when she got home and Bellamy pretended nothing happened. Not even the hint of a smirk, or a taunting glint in his eyes, just plain old nothingness. Turns out Bellamy was better at being an adult about this than her, and it messed her up. 

Clarke took one of the latest departing trains she could without bending her mother out of shape, showing up just in time to see the pre-prepared chicken being placed in the sweltering oven. She was bombarded with hugs hello and stories about Octavia’s new kickboxing instructor and anecdotes about Marcus’ newest personal assistant. At some point the eldest sibling stumbled in, covered in dirt and grime, home from work.

Bellamy grumbled a short, obligatory ‘ _hello_ ’ and to her aggravation even added an ‘ _how are you_ ’ before mumbling something about washing up before dinner and fucking off to his pool house. No double take, or a disgusted scowl at the memory of what they did, not even a single fucking semi-innuendo to tease her with. Face completely blank. He was doing it. Acting like an adult. And for some reason, Clarke was _seething_. Crescent-shaped red welts in the palms of her hands, seething. 

He didn’t get to act like he was unaffected. Like it didn’t mean shit and she was nothing more but a piece of discarded gum on the bottom of his dirty old work boots. Good enough to get off to, but not worthy enough to give the time of the day. 

No way.

Her mother breaks her out of her inner turmoil slash temper tantrum when she returns with oven mitts and the chicken, asking her to get the salad from the kitchen. He’s there by the faucet, sipping on a glass of water. His eyebrows lift when he sees her, and she can tell he’s at least a little startled by the way he tenses, but he doesn’t say anything. One drop of water trails down his hand, wrist, forearm. 

Clarke opens the fridge, the cold slap of air a necessity to her heated cheeks as she skims the contents slowly. Her mind’s not really registering anything but how truly awkward this is, much of her earlier anger-fueled bravado long gone, and suddenly she can’t even remember what a salad looks like. She’s too keyed up, worrying about if he’ll say something. She doesn’t want him to. She wants him to. It’s confusing. 

“So,” he starts, putting the glass down on the counter with a soft thud. The sound of it almost makes her cringe. From the corner of her eye she can tell he leans his hip against the expensive marble, arms crossed over his chest.

Clarke’s eyes zero in on a jar of pickles, heart beating loudly in her chest. “So,” she echoes, hoping it sounds as distanced and casual as she intends it to. 

She can feel his eyes on the side of her face, but she refuses to give him the satisfaction of looking at him. He clears his throat a little awkwardly, then asks, “How’s school?”

She yanks out the wooden bowl, slamming the door of the refrigerator closed loudly. She turns to him on the back of her heels, and she’s not quite glaring at him, but it’s close. “Seriously?”

He lifts a shoulder, his forehead creasing in the same way it always does when they’re about to argue about laundry, or what take-out place to order from. “What?”

Clarke grits her teeth together, fixating her gaze on a spot just below his chin. Does he really think she’s this insignificant? Not even worth a conversation, an explanation? He just wants to sweep it, _her_ , under the rug, go back to hiding in his pool house and making no effort at treating her like an actual human being with feelings.

He inhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face quickly, and finally some of his composure breaks. Solemnly, he explains, low, “It’s better if we just don’t mention it.”

Her gaze snaps up at the sound of his voice, but he refuses to look at her. Coldness seeps into her tone as she bites back, “What? The fact I have a handful of your dick pics on my phone?” 

It comes out more flippant and brattily than necessary but only because she knows he hates it. And if she pisses him off, maybe he’ll break first.

Dark eyes meet hers, and she _hates_ his patronizing tone, how closed off he’s being, distant. “You should delete those.”

She quirks an eyebrow, reply quick and razor-sharp. “Have you deleted mine?”

His jaw clenches. Hypocrite. 

Clarke lets out a rough breath of mirthless laughter, shaking her head once, twice in disbelief. “That’s what I thought.”

Bellamy’s eyes are sharp and heavy on hers, no longer avoiding whatever _this_ is. His tight grip leaving white fingerprints on his biceps. “So what’s the plan then? You want them to find out? Get rid of me once and for all?”

“No,” she cuts in immediately, panic surging up in her chest at the mere thought. Nobody can _ever_ learn of what they did. And the truth is she doesn’t really know nor understand exactly why she’s mad. He’s doing what she wants him to do. Leaving this behind them. She puts the bowl on the kitchen island beside her so she can run a hand through her hair, ignoring but hoping to calm the sick nerves rushing through her system.

“Then what do you want?” Bellamy presses on, obviously aggravated. What _does_ she want? She can't remember the last time anyone asked her that. When she just stares at him, lips slightly parted like an idiot, eyes widened, all previous thoughts gone from her mind, he keeps going himself, “Look, Clarke — I just came back from a lousy shift at the bar and Emori got promoted to management, so she made me do shots before going home. To celebrate one of us finally selling out.” He’s being specific enough for to believe it’s not a lie, but too detailed for him to pretend he isn’t desperate for this to be enough of an _excuse_. His eyes dart over her face, never staying in one place too long. “I was completely shit-faced, I didn’t… I didn’t even notice it was you until it said we matched.”

“So was I,” she whisper-shouts, hushing, trying hard to keep her voice down as she throws up her hands in frustration. “But there’s a huge fucking line between a drunken mistake and getting off to your step-sister, Bellamy!” 

Yeah, she’d been semi-drunk, but she sure as hell knew that what they were doing was wrong. She can’t stand here and let him absolve himself of all fault, like she was the only one who did this despite knowing better. She’s not a freak. And if she is, so is he.

“It was a mistake,” Bellamy commands, almost authoritatively, leaving no room for argument. He taps his finger on the counter, once, twice. Brown eyes insistent on hers, he takes a step closer, and after a beat, presses dismissively, “And it’ll never happen again.”

Clarke opens her mouth, staring up at him with her arms crossed over her chest protectively. Heat radiates off him, and she snaps it shut. She’s so _angry_ with him, she doesn’t know what to do with it. Acting like she would even want it to happen again. Like he needs protecting from her, that she wouldn’t be able to keep herself from pouncing on him. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Please,” he snorts dryly, and she pushes away the urge to slap him across his stupid, arrogant, smirking face. Something almost playful flashes across his gaze as he looks her up and down lazily. “You were practically begging for it.”

She balls her fists, taking a step closer as she sucks in a sharp breath, watching his smirk only grow in what she can best describe as anticipatory amusement — “Guys, I’m hungry!” Octavia’s demanding coming from the dining room voice startles them both, just a few dozen feet away. Their _family_ waiting for them to join. It makes Clarke shudder. “Hurry up already!”

They scramble to make their way back, both begrudgingly realizing the only two available spots at the long table are across from Octavia. Clarke could pick up one of the plates and move it, but then she’d have to explain why she doesn’t want to be sitting next to Bellamy and she’s not sure she wants to have that conversation. Ever.

Marcus starts to cut the chicken, conversationally asking his wife about her day and Clarke’s only half paying attention to anything they say. Her hand brushes Bellamy’s as they both reach for the basket of bread rolls at the same time, but he pulls it back immediately, both of them averting their eyes. 

“Why are you guys being so weird?” Octavia observes them, rather loudly, one eyebrow cocked as she chews on a mouthful of potato salad. She draws the attention of their parents, too, their chitchat dying off quietly. 

“We’re not,” Bellamy insists, even offering Clarke a kind smile that takes her by surprise. He reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder, pinching the muscle there playfully until she tilts her head towards his wrist, swatting him away. She glares at him, digging her nails into his hand before tossing it back into his own lap. It’s something he’d do to Octavia, and although that’s something she wanted for a long time, for some reason this time it makes a wave of disgust roll up her body. 

“We’re fine,” she grits, then quirks up the corners of her mouth like they’re just kidding around. If he wants to pull the teasing big brother part even though he literally told her he’d like to taste her a mere week ago, that’s fine with her. Two can play that game.

Abby is smiling wistfully at them from her end of the table, eyes gleaming with amusement. “I’m glad to see you guys are finally getting along.”

“Yeah, we’ve been keeping in touch,” Clarke deadpans, patting him on the knee with a pointed look. She raises her eyebrows, making sure he doesn’t miss the challenge she’s laying out in front of him. “Texting and stuff.”

He almost chokes on his water, scraping his throat. The flush moving it’s way up his neck makes her keep her hand there, fingertips digging into the inside of his thigh. It feels good, to show him he’s not the one in control.

“That’s nice, honey,” Abby muses, reaching for the bowl of salad and helping herself to an generous serving. She takes a sip of her wine next, her eyes lighting up with recognition. “He must have told you he’s taking night classes.”

“No, hasn’t mentioned it,” Clarke bats her eyes at him, like she’s confused, fingers slowly creeping further up his thigh. He doesn’t dare move, muscles tense beneath her. The only other tell he’s affected the way his nostrils flare with every sharp inhale of air, pretending to sip on his water. “We mostly talk after work, at night. He’s always so worn out. Must have slipped his mind.”

His big, warm hand covers her, stopping her movements. “You’re always showing me your artwork, gets me a bit distracted.” Her mouth briefly curves into a smile at the mention of her _works of art_ , but she quickly stifles it, biting down on her lip instead. His face remains mostly neutral as he raises his gaze to look at her, except for the darkness in his eyes, the brief flex in his jaw. Grudgingly relenting to keep up the ruse in front of their family, he allows, “I’m trying to get my GED.”

“That’s great,” Clarke insists all happy-go-lucky, and although his hand is still keeping hers in place, she can move her thumb, caressing the inside of his leg leisurely. More sincerely, she presses, “I’m really proud of you.”

There’s a passing flash of _something_ in his eyes that should scare her more than it does. “I’m proud of you, too, you know?” The praise makes something flare up in her lower belly, permeating heat straight to her core. Bellamy leans back in his chair and spreads his knees inconspicuously, finally taking her up on the challenge. He raises his eyebrows slowly, knowing look on his face. “Working so hard to achieve your dreams.”

She feigns a smile at him, tight lipped, and he actually goddamn grins at her, tilting his head slightly. How heartwarming.

“This is getting incestous,” Octavia comments, cheek resting on her fist boredly as she shifts her food around on her plate. Clarke knows she’s only kidding, lives to serve rude commentary that shocks other people and makes them squirm, but it makes her cheeks pink up with humiliation anyway. 

“Octavia!” Marcus scolds her, flattening his palm on the table, but she just rolls her eyes, stabbing a potato with her fork rather harshly. Her mom changes the subject to some anecdote from her lunch break in hopes of smoothing over the uncomfortable mood at the table. 

Clarke discreetly tries to yank her hand away from him while everyone’s distracted, realizing she might have taken this too far, but he doesn’t let go. Instead he tightens his grip around her small wrist. Her first reaction is surprise, her head snapping towards him, barely concealed shock written all over it. She collects herself and sends him an annoyed look, but his grin just widens before he innocently continues shoving vegetables into his mouth with his free hand like her fingers aren’t inches away from his dick. Even laughs politely at Abby’s story.

“So O,“ Bellamy starts as soon as another silence falls over the table, completely calm even though he’s slowly and subtly sliding her hand higher and higher up, inch by inch. She holds her breath on instinct. It’s one thing to see your brother’s dick, it’s another to actually touch it. Although it’s over the clothes, it’s under the table at family dinner. That particular incrimination has to count as something extra when it comes to baseball metaphors. “Have you told them yet about what coach Miller said after the game yesterday?”

He sure knows how to distract his sister. If there’s one thing Octavia likes more than prying into other people’s business, it’s the sound of her own voice. Her youngest step-sibling goes off into a story about her soccer team while their parents listen and nod along in interest. None of them even notice how Clarke barely seems to hear a word of it, how badly she’s keeping it together. Her head is spinning, and a sheen of sweat is starting to form on her back. 

Clarke shakily exhales through her nose, focusing her gaze on her plate. Most of her appetite is gone, stomach full of knots and a lump forming in her throat. _He won’t actually do it_ , she tells herself, _he’s not insane._ Just as her fingers touch the seam of his crotch, she pulls her hand back roughly, almost knocking over her wine glass. 

Bellamy stifles a laugh as all eyes turn on her and her flushed cheeks. Then he expertly and nonchalantly buts in, “And didn’t he say he hadn’t seen a Fake Cross that good since the nineties?” It almost sounds like he was actually listening and _not_ forcing her to feel him up in front of the rest of their family.

All attention turns back on a gloating Octavia as Clarke swallows tightly, gripping her knife and fork tightly in each hand as she tries to calm down the rapid drum in her chest. A weird mix of embarrassment and arousal swirls through her system, neither of which she wants him to notice. He doesn’t miss the way she has to cross one leg over the other, though, and she’s not sure she even wanted him to. Not when she likes that dangerous glint in his eyes so much.

* * *

Clarke is brushing her hair in front of her vanity when there’s a soft knock on her door. She sighs, missing the peace and quiet of her own off-campus apartment with zero roommates. “Come in.”

When she looks at the door opening in the mirror, to her surprise, it’s not her mom for some forced meddling-of-her-business disguised as girl-talk, or Marcus for some end of the day faux-paternal wisdom. It’s Bellamy. Her heart skips a beat at the implication. He never comes to her room, not even back when they still shared a bathroom.

She puts the brush down, avoiding his gaze as she starts to put her blonde locks into a loose braid. “What are you doing here?”

He closes the door behind him, eyebrows raised as he leans back against it all casual and lazy confidence. He’s in grey sweatpants and a black long-sleeved shirt, obviously freshly showered since his hair is still damp. The gruffness in his voice pulls low in her belly, and it almost makes her cringe at her own transgressed weakness. “What do you think?”

Clarke narrows her eyes as she finishes tying her hair off, lifting herself off the cushioned bench. She tightens her robe around her body before petulantly crossing her arms over her chest. “Absolutely not.”

“So you don’t want to watch a movie together?” He presses smugly, pushing himself off her door. The corners of his lip turn up in what she can tell is the beginning of an annoying smirk. “Or what did you think I meant?”

“Please,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes before they flit over his broad chest, his prominent adam’s apple, his bare feet. Something she hopes she can pass off as judgmental disdain, and not just her unashamedly checking him out. “The last time we watched a documentary together we almost ended up in a fist fight because you couldn’t shut up about the historical inaccuracies.”

Bellamy shrugs, a challenging twinkle in his brown eyes. “We’re getting along now, right?”

Clarke snorts, tightening her fingers into fists. First he wants to pretend none of it happened, and now he wants to just assume he can waltz in here and take what he wants. “Doesn’t mean I want to Netflix and Chill with you.”

“Dirty princess,” he comments with a tsk, stepping close enough to tug on her braid softly, rubbing the hair on the end between his fingers gently. Close enough she can smell his body wash. Feel the heat radiating off his body. 

“Like you’re here for any other reason than that,” she spits angrily, like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, holding on to that rage, hoping to remind herself that this is bad. That her mind shouldn’t feel this hazy just because her step-brother is in her proximity. “You can’t even stand being in the same room as me usually.” 

Shame all it took was a peek at her tits. She should be more offended, really.

He ducks his head, fingers trailing up her arm torturously slow as he noses the braid aside, pressing a dry kiss to the tight tendon in her neck. She’s barely able to suppress the shiver demanding to run up her spine. “Maybe I just want to see you get heated over unrealistic romantic plotlines.”

Clarke drops her arms instinctively, sending him a pointed look as his hands slide along her stomach and splay across her waist. She should push him away. Teach him a lesson. He is not in control here. She’s not under some spell. Her voice is hoarse, doesn’t carry as much of a punch as she would like them to, “What? You wanna sit on my bed and watch Clueless together? Marathon Cruel Intentions?”

His breath is warm against her neck as he chuckles lowly, and her clit has the audacity to throb longingly. “You really have a one-track mind.”

“We can’t,” she reminds him, although she tilts her head to the side, giving him more room as he starts kissing and nipping at the skin. Her eyes flutter shut at the combined sensation of his mean teeth, unrelenting tongue, soothing lips. They definitely can, she reminds herself. They’ve crossed the line before. So she corrects herself, even if it’s just a whimpered breath, “We _shouldn’t_.”

Bellamy hums in agreement, sucking on her pulsepoint hard enough to leave a mark. She’s so fucking wet it’s embarrassing. She’d hardly even call this first base. She’s pathetic. Sick even. One of his hands moves to the hollow of her back, pulling her closer until her back arches enough to accommodate his talented mouth.

Her eyes spring open as her fingers wind into his hair, zeroing in on the door. She’s reminded anyone could walk in at any moment. “You have the poolhouse,” she points out, grip tightening on his hair as his teeth scrape a particularly sensitive spot. Not willing to admit to herself by starting this conversation, she’s already given in.

  
He pulls back enough to smirk at her, his mouth red, lips slightly swollen. She craves a kiss so much, her toes curl into the carpet. She won’t ask for it. Bellamy squeezes her waist, few curls falling into his eyes because of the angle he’s looking down at her. “What would be the fun in that?”

“Ass,” Clarke retorts heatedly, a raspy murmur, but she lets him untie her robe, push it down her shoulders until it drops to the floor. Leaving her nothing but her plaid sleep shorts and an old dark tank-top.

“Wouldn’t be the same without Megan Fox staring at us,” he teases, making fun of her teenage crush and the posters plastered across her pale pink walls, and Clarke rolls her eyes. Although in all fairness they _might_ just be doing that because of the sheer pleasure it brings her when he nips at her exposed collarbone.

She wants to come up with something witty, put him in his place, but one hand slips under her top and she’s distracted by the trail of heat his touch leaves behind on her skin. It’s been too long since anyone touched her. Fingers skim over her sternum and just below where she really wants him to, just teasing. She can feel him smirk against her clavicle, her hips bucking up against him without her permission. “You want something, Clarke?”

“No,” she answers, stubbornly, barely a breath, small hand moving down to the back of his neck. Her blood refuses to settle, rushing and throbbing and driving her completely insane. She might scream if he doesn’t touch her soon. _Really_ touch her.

Bellamy rests his hand over her ribs, perfectly polite, and it takes everything in her to stifle the whine of protest threatening to spill from her mouth. His hand is big enough to cover almost half of her torso and it does something funny to her knees. He moves his head back to take a good look at her, pupils blown. 

Clarke meets his gaze, hazy with lust, toying with the curls at the base of his neck. He lifts the hand not currently under her shirt and tormenting her, brushes his thumb over her parted lips gently. They’re wet, and she’s panting hard. God, what’s wrong with her?

“Are you gonna make me beg?” She grits desperately, most of the heat lost when her eyes flutter shut, Bellamy leaning down and starting to pepper soft butterfly kisses along her cheekbone, jaw. 

“No,” Bellamy states matter-of-factly, and her delirious mind almost believes him as his fingers start moving up her side again. Her heartbeat speeds up, only to slow back down with dull disappointment when blunt nails only barely scrape the side of her breast. She can hear the self-satisfaction in his voice as he presses, pulling back again, “Just ask nicely.”

Her eyes spring open, cunt clenching around nothing, and she glares at him. She’s running out of restraint. “Fucking touch me already, Bellamy.”

“Bossy,” he chuckles breathily, although it’s cut short when they both groan, his fingers finally squeezing her breast, thumb flicking over her nipple through the lace of her bra.

Then there’s a creak in the floorboard outside her room and the door flies open, making them immediately break apart. Octavia stares at them weirdly and Clarke tries not to look too much like a deer caught in headlights. She forces herself to calm her breathing, eyes briefly flicking over to Bellamy casually leaning against her vanity like he wasn’t just fondling her, ankles crossed inconspicuously. “What are you freaks doing?”

“We were going to watch a movie,” Bellamy counters easily, and if it wasn’t for the slight roughness of his voice, she’d think she made it all up in her head. She guesses it’s not a whole lie he tells their sister.

Octavia’s face morphs into something resembling a lot more excitement, kicking the door shut behind her. Disappointment swells in her chest. Clarke’s never wanted her to fuck off more badly in her life. “What movie?”

Her stepsister is looking at her, but she’s afraid if she speaks she might give it all away. Luckily Bellamy already seems to have an answer prepared, tipping his head slightly, “Night on Earth.”

“You guys are so boring,” Octavia flicks her eyes up to the ceiling, stomping over to Clarke’s desk. She opens her laptop, logs in easily enough for Clarke to make a distant mental note to change her password one of these days. 

_If only she knew_ , Clarke thinks to herself, sinking down on her bed. Her mind is still going a mile a minute, an unfamiliar ache settling in her limbs and under her prickling skin. She tilts her head back against the headboard and meets Bellamy’s heavy gaze, the hint of a smirk on his lips like he’s thinking the same. The blonde swallows heavily, not understanding the warm feeling making a home out of the pit of her stomach, spreading to the rest of her body slowly but surely. 

It’s Octavia’s voice that makes them finally break away, laptop balancing off the dip in her stomach as she browses through Netflix. Her free hand pushes her brother towards the bed, hurrying him along. 

Bellamy settles down on the far right, but when she climbs onto the bed, she settles in on her brother’s left side anyway, tossing the device into his lap as carelessly as she always treats everyone else’s possessions. “Let’s watch After again.”

_Again?_ Clarke makes a halfhearted internal note to herself, not sure what kind of torture Octavia exposes her brother to frequently. Althought it doesn't surprise her he would give her first pick. The girl in question shoves him further away from her, scrunching her nose as she settles in on her stomach, taking over almost half the bed in order to see the screen properly. Her excuse, “You’re like a furnace, it’s gross.”

Bellamy is reluctantly forced to press up against Clarke’s side instead. He scooches down a little, leans back on one elbow, stubborn curls tickling her bare arm. The laptop ends up far down on his lap and from this angle she can look at his face without anyone else noticing. The slope of his nose, the fluttering of his unfairly long eyelashes, the freckles dotted along his cheekbones. It makes her mouth dry up and does nothing to quell the throbbing between her thighs.

She’s actually _sick._ Octavia is right there, their sister, the one who stopped them just in time, before they took it too far. It should be enough of a cosmic sign for her to not want this so much. But God, does she want it. Wants it so much she can’t even imagine what it’s like to not want it.

* * *

Clarke has decided to make good use of the weekend by dragging herself out of bed before ten am, and into the bright morning sunlight, deciding to work on her tan out by the pool. Bringing her art therapy textbooks, she can even make the early start useful on multiple fronts.

To her annoyance, Bellamy’s there already, doing laps, but she barely pays him any attention from behind her sunglasses. The satisfying slaps of her flip flops on the concrete draw his, but she pretends not to notice. Simply refuses to give him the satisfaction as she lays down on the lounge chair the farthest away from him, propping her book up on her stomach, effectively hiding her face.

Surprisingly, she actually manages to get lost in the words for over half an hour, the only sounds made by one of their neighbors’ gardeners trimming bushes, distantly, and his moving body creating ripple waves in the pool, closely. It creates a lazy, passive want in her, craving the cool of the water on her heated skin. 

Of course the serenity doesn’t last long, his deep voice startling her in the middle of a paragraph on Basquiat. “You gonna come in?”

“Can’t,” she replies, perfunctory, not bothering to look up at him. She switched onto her stomach five minutes ago, weight supported by her forearms. “I’m studying.”

“You can take a break,” Bellamy demands, making her eyebrows jump despite herself. The line intended to do just that, get under her skin enough for her draw her gaze onto him. Nothing does that as easily as him being his usual ass-being self. She knows it, and still plays right into his trap.

When she lifts her eyes to look up at him, she realizes what finally got him to break his resolve after over half an hour of swimming while she was laying around half-naked. Breasts pressed together almost obscenely in this position, his dark eyes flick up from her chest just a flash too late for her not to notice. In the waist deep part of the pool, he drums his fingers on the concrete tile edge impatiently, droplets glistening on his golden chest as they slide down and disappear back into the water. He has the decency to look guilty for being caught at least, although it shouldn’t make much difference.

There’s a harsh inhale through his nose on his part, the sigh that follows next just a sound of pure frustration. “I won’t try anything, I promise,” he urges, quick and low like he might lose his never if he doesn’t, sounding genuine enough. The way he avoids looking at her directly, tells her he actually is. “Yesterday — I went too far. That shouldn’t have happened. I’m—” His jaw clenches, fingers tightening around the edge of the pool so his fingertips turn a pale white. “Sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Clarke can’t help but sound giddy at the admission, sliding her sunglasses into her hair to really take in this monumental moment. Over the five years he’s been in her life, he hasn’t ever so much as even apologized for accidentally stepping on her foot. Insistent on being combative with her at all times, and never willing to show her even just a crack in that prideful armor of his. 

Bellamy scrunches up his nose. “Let’s never mention it again,” he grumbles, gritting his teeth. She doesn’t know if he means the apology, or the fact they both know what his hand feels like wrapped around her breast. Maybe both.

She should probably recognize it for what it is. A lousy attempt at trying to pretend this is something it isn’t. He’s just luring her in. Hell, he was checking her out five seconds ago. Part of her still craves that closeness he has with Octavia, and he knows it. How much she longs for that kind of unconditional love and blind acceptance, to be taken care of and protected, no matter how many times she fucks up. The depraved part that craves for something as silly and simple as an overprotective older brother, willing to do anything for her, after a life of being an only child, losing her dad, after coming so close with Wells before it got ripped away from her. And that part of her makes her push herself up from the flat lounge bed. 

Clarke adjusts her black string bikini before she settles on the edge of the pool, hissing at the heat of the pavement under her ass, dipping her feet in carefully. He doesn’t move from where he’s standing, waiting for her to say something. 

“It’s okay,” she admits quietly to her toes, painted dark, wriggling them in the water. Maybe it’s naive, stupid even, to think they can still go back to what they were before, but she’s willing to believe it, desperate for it even, if it permits her to be that close to him again without it being weird between them. “I let it go too far same as you. I could’ve stopped you.”

“I _am_ sorry,” Bellamy insists again, absentmindedly weaving his hand through the water, letting it slip through the cracks in between his fingers before he squeezes the hand into a fist, shoulders tense. “I never meant to make you feel scared in your own home.”

She freezes, dreadful eyes snapping up to his face. “Scared?”

Disgust covers his pretty features and it clicks into place all at once. He seems to think she was some unwilling little damsel that fell victim to him. He’s not trying to lure her back in. He’s really trying to make this okay, leave it all behind them. Her stomach churns, and she hasn’t decided if that’s a good or bad thing. 

She rolls her eyes, because if he was ever good at something, it was at misestimating her self-efficacy. “This is your home as much as it’s mine, and I’ve never felt unsafe here a minute of my life.” Clarke lets some of her grievance with his self-pitying ways seep into her voice, thinks of how even during the times they hated each other the most, he’s never made her feel anything but safe. There’s not many men who could glare at her like he sometimes did, and in turn just make her yell harder. “Especially not because of you. You’re not as intimidating as you seem to think.”

The corners of his mouth quirk up in a self-deprecating way, although he does meet her eyes, a hint of amusement in them. “You say that now, but wait until you’re seeing three different therapists before you turn thirty.”

“Bellamy,” she grits, brow furrowing together, knowing she shouldn’t allow the conversation to take a dangerous turn like this. If they want to move on, they shouldn’t keep lingering in it. But she can’t allow him to think this was somehow his fault, when from day one they’ve always taken equal blame for any of their shared indegressions. Whether it was ruining dinner with one of their arguments, or one of Octavia’s particularly sour moods. They’ve always been equals. “I am being serious. I’m not some child who didn’t know better. I wanted it.” 

‘It’ grants a sense of false safety with all of it’s vagueness. Somehow feels like she’d cross a line if she actually allowed herself to say ‘you’. If she let her voice reveal she still does. 

Her mouth opens, their heavy gaze meeting, and she hesitates. A moment of tense silence falling over them. “I wanted it,” she echoes, finally, not trusting herself to say more than that, swallowing tightly in hopes of ridding her mouth of it’s sudden dryness. 

They stay quiet, but something in the air has shifted again. Clarke is fine with silence, but he never has been. He takes one look at her pink cheeks, the sweat moving it’s way down in between her breasts, and is hiding a smirk. “It’s hot out, huh?”

He moves to come up closer beside her, cupping his hands and lifting them so he can let some water trickle over her thighs, down her knees, and her calves. The cold feels nice on her overheated skin. Calming, almost, with how gently he’s doing it. Her eyes flutter shut. 

Then his fingertips skim along the outside of her knee too long for it to be entirely accidental and she figures out his real intentions. The push and pull is exhausting. How much she enjoys it even more so. What’s wrong with her? Every time she feels like they take one step forward, it’s two steps back for them just as fast. And she just lets it happen. Can’t bring herself to be anything but spineless when it comes to threading the line with him.

“This no longer feels like brotherly affection,” she warns, although it carries a lack of heat, eyes springing open, and he pulls away, lifting his shoulders like it isn’t in his control. 

“Just a little taste of that upcoming family vacation cruise,” he says mockingly, forearms on the edge of the pool and cheek resting on top of his hands as he shifts his head to look at her. He’s keeping his distance, which is good, she reminds herself.

He’s alluding to her mother’s big announcement near the end of dinner last night. With their parents’ five year anniversary coming up, they wanted to celebrate their union in a ‘big way’ this summer break. Bellamy had discreetly cleared his throat from beside her, reminding her to loosen her grip on the stem of her wineglass before it snapped in half. 

“Don’t remind me,” Clarke groans, throwing her head back slightly as she leans back on her hands. Her sunglasses almost slip out of her hair, so she takes them out completely, putting them down on the concrete beside her. She licks her lips, shaking her head lightly to herself, pointedly pressing, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it.”

He picks up his head, humming in disappointment. Amusement coats his tone. “Don’t stay home on my behalf, princess.”

Clarke scrunches up her face. “God, how do you even stay afloat with an ego that big?”

His smirk grows, a lazy kind of cockiness to it. “You like that I’m big.”

She kicks some water at him, and he catches her foot in retaliation before she can pull it back completely, tugging her into the water easily. She coughs up half a lung as she resurfaces, pushing her hair back from her face with both hands so he can see the momentous glare she’s throwing at him in all it’s glory. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Ah, come on, Clarke,” he retorts with a low chuckle, wading close enough so he’s looming over her. Ripples of water sloshing up against her chest because of the movement. She tells herself it’s the temperature of the water that’s causing her nipples to grow hard against her bathing suit. “You’re not one of those girls afraid of getting their hair wet, are you?”

“No,” Clarke seethes, forehead creasing, still annoyed with him for the stunt he pulled and the semi-sexism he’s throwing into the mix, the arrogant implication of her being just another one of his conquests, shoving him in the chest harshly. He barely moves, somehow ends up even closer to her, fingers grazing down her side under the water. She can’t help herself, can’t help the sick thrill she gets every time she hears it out loud, every time they realize it and move forward anyway, acknowledging how wrong it is and not caring anyway, she urges, “I’m your _sister._ ”

Bellamy doesn’t even bother correcting her this time. He’s too distracted toying with the knot of strings on the side of her hip, the way his dark eyes are roaming slowly over her figure causing a splotchy flush to bloom across her chest. It’s too much, the soft, almost shy gruffness of his voice. “You wear this just for me?”

Clarke’s mind flashes to barely an hour ago, standing in front of her childhood bedroom mirror, twisting and turning as she tried on at least five different bikinis. Chastising herself for being so ridiculous, she picked her oldest, most simple one. Because she didn’t want him to think she made any effort. Not because she had grown since getting it junior year of high school and it was so tight in some places it was almost scandalous. No way her mother would ever let her wear this one outside of the home, which made it absolutely perfect. 

Her head spins trying to make up for her sudden loss of equilibrium, and she can’t deny him, or the little shocks of anticipation he sends up her spine every time her eyes flit down and see he could be one tug away from exposing her. She swallows hard, then grants him a flippant, “Maybe.”

His mouth twitches, and she can’t help but feel satisfied for pleasing him. “You look hot.”

“Thanks,” she mumbles dismissively, a blush creeping onto her cheeks despite her telling herself it’s not a big deal. She knows she’s attractive, quite likes the way she looks on the days she pays attention to it, and his words really shouldn’t hold that much weight to her. Subtly, she tries to change the subject back to their initial, relatively safer conversation. “I’m just saying, five weeks is a long time.”

Bellamy snorts, letting go off her bikini strings to rest his hand right there over her hip instead. The other one reaches up to move her wet hair off her collarbone and over her shoulder before placing it on her other hip, eyes lingering there. “Imagine being stuck with Marcus and his unsolicited pep talks for over a month.” His nose scrunches up lightly in horror as he tips his head to the side, curls already half-dry because of the sun beating down their scalps. “It’s a ship. There’s nowhere to run.”

A light laugh escapes her throat, hands coming up to wrap around his forearms, just from where they’re resting against her sides. “It could be fun, though,” Clarke tries out to gauge his reaction as she worries her lip, slowly looking up at him through her lashes.

His hands slide backwards over her hips, squeezing her ass right where her tight bikini bottoms cut into her skin. A grin leisurely forms on his lips, attention finally back on her face. Not that his dark gaze does much to calm her racing mind. “And don’t we all know fun is at the top of your list of priorities?”

“Hmmm. Maybe not fun,” Clarke corrects herself teasingly, fingernails trailing up and down his arms slowly as she shoot him a coy look. “ _Relaxing_.”

He groans, dragging her closer and making her body twitch with the sudden stimulation as his hardness presses right up against her centre. Bellamy leans in, nosing her cheek as he grunts into her ear, “I can’t stay away from you.”

Her breath hitches in the back of her throat, and he takes her silence as a sign to continue. It’s not _not_ a sign. Bellamy grinds up against her at the same time he hauls her hips towards him, fingertips digging into her ass almost painfully, and her teeth sink into her lip harshly, trying to keep from letting out an embarrassing moan. She struggles to keep her heavy eyes open, longing sparking low in her belly. “We can’t.” 

To his credit, he stills his movements, stopping his hips from bucking against hers, instead presses his lips against her bare shoulder, licking a drop of water off her clavicle before murmuring into her skin. “Why not?”

The vibrations of his deep voice go straight to her cunt and she considers it. Their parents are out at the country club, and don’t usually make it back until brunch time has long come and gone. Octavia is still asleep inside, classified a dead person until way passed the ten hour sleep mark. Considering Clarke heard her play video games until 3 am, they should relatively safe.

Although that’s not all they need to worry about. 

Clarke quirks an eyebrow, pulling back from him enough so she can look down at him, but as soon as she moves he’s already dragging himself back up to his full height. She wants to lose herself in him, and it should be scarier. “Other than the obvious?”

He shrugs half-heartedly before leaning back into her space enough to lift her up in his arms, and in spite of the small squeak of surprise spilling from her lips, her arms and legs wrap around his neck and waist respectively, almost instinctively. The stiff peaks of her breasts press up against his firm chest, make her rock her hips into him, desperate for any kind of friction. It causes a pleased grin to form on his lips, turning them around and pressing her back against the pebbled wall of the pool, an obvious challenge in his voice, “No one has to know.”

Like that makes it okay. Her hands move to wrap around his triceps, and she squeezes them firmly, demanding his gaze on her. He relents, and she searches his deep brown eyes, not even sure what she’s looking for. Although it’s mostly lust she finds, there’s also something softer, more affectionate there. All her life, everyone’s told her to use her head, do what’s right. For all intents and purposes, this is _wrong_. But, he makes her feel all kinds of exhilarating things. Brave, one of many, and for the first time, she’s considering doing what feels right. She makes up her mind. “Not here.”

Clarke barely catches a glimpse of his eager smirk, and her entire body is on a hypervigilant high. Lowering her to the floor, he wraps his hand around hers, tugging her towards the steps at the shallow end of the pool before directly leading her into his pool house. She hardly has any time to look around before Bellamy has her pressed up against the door, the glass sticking to her wet body. 

Bellamy leans into her space, their breaths mingling as he looks down at her. Clarke doesn’t dare move, not even when he moves forward torturously slow, pressing his soft lips to her beauty mark fondly. He lingers there for a moment, mouth barely grazing her skin, her sharp nails digging into his ribs, blue eyes dark and heavy on his as he pulls back again, just enough for her to see his entire face. _Need_ throbs inside her veins with every erratic beat of her heart.

When they finally kiss, she feels it in her toes. She moans as their hot mouths meet, and immediately licks into him. It’s fast, and dirty, and too easy to get lost in. 

Her fingers explore the broad expanse of his back, both of their bodies dripping water onto the floor. He smells like chlorine, and something heady and clean that reminds her of the work-out tanks he used to leave laying around in their bathroom all the time no matter how many time she complained. His arms are warm and tight around her as he lifts her up easily, placing her down on the side table next to them. He only has to knock a few candles and a decorative bowl of seashells aside, the loud clatter as they touch the floor kicking her heart into overdrive. 

He’s really never made this much of this place his own, she notes, and then is too far gone on the way his tongue moves against hers to really draw a sound conclusion from it. Bellamy’s fingers wrap around the inside of her knees, pulling, and she relents, opening wider for him. His fingers skim along her thighs, hips, up her sides until they reach the strings digging into the skin just below her armpits. 

(So maybe too small wasn’t _just_ sexy. The things she does for dick.)

He dips his fingertips under there, soothing the reddened skin. Clarke can’t wait any longer to have his hands where she really wants them, already tugging on the knot at the back of her neck impatiently. Bellamy bites down on her bottom lip, drawing out a moan from her, before pulling back enough to kiss down her jaw, neck, nipping on her collarbone, dragging his tongue down the valley in between her breasts, sucking on the top of her exposed mounds. Thumbs still just caressing her ribs slowly, the dull sting only adding to the pleasure. 

Her face creases up, still fiddling with the stubborn knot, making her curse lowly under her breath in frustration. She just wants to feel him against her already. To work her over in the meantime, her knees tighten around his hips, urging him closer. Desperate for friction where she needs it most. 

Groaning just as the bulge in his swimming trunk brushes her hot centre, his hands still their movements and he drags his face back up to hers. There’s an almost pained expression on his face, his voice rough after he clears his throat a little and he speaks, “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this.”

She’s not sure why he’s having second thoughts now, but it strikes her like a slap across the face nonetheless. Her arms drop to her sides as she swallows hard, trying to calm the rapid beating of her heart as her eyes flit over his appearance. His red mouth, the angry marks down his ribs, his wild hair, the obvious hardness pressing against the inside of her thigh. Her head tries to make sense of it, but can’t. “What?” Is the best she comes up with, tone flat.

Bellamy pulls hands from her ribs, as if it’s an unconscious act, letting them fall to the outsides of her knees. “I’m sorry,” he grumbles, frustration evident, and then he’s shaking head lightly, lifting one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It’s just _—_ ” He inhales deeply, raising his eyes to hers, eyebrows drawn together. There are flashes of contempt all over him; the tension in his shoulders, the tightening of the jaw, swirling through the brown of his eyes and staking its claim. “I’m no good.”

Her racing mind is still struggling to catch up with him, breaths coming out in heavy pants as she carefully sits up a little. They both hiss as it causes her cunt to brush up right against his crotch, but she decides to ignore it, swallowing hard to keep the sensation at bay. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment as she collects her bearings. Then she echoes, “No good?”

“You’re so — you’re smart, and beautiful, ambitious, you’re incredibly resilient..” He seems to rail himself in at the stunned expression on her face, and instead his thumbs brush over the side of her knees subliminally and he settles on, “You’re perfect.” His mouth twists sourly, fingers tugging at the curls at the front of his head as he ducks his head, distant gaze fixed somewhere on her lap. “I’m — taking night classes. Working three different jobs.”

Clarke bites back a groan. He can’t be this dense. He can’t have the ego he has and actually think this lowly of himself. It seems impossible. Instead she tilts her head back against the wall, inwardly cursing at the ceiling, thinking about giving in, about letting the embarrassment of the subtle rejection win, then thinks _fuck that_ , picks it back up to glare at him and grit through her teeth, “You didn’t get me this wet just to back out now because you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”

Something a lot like hurt like she’s not taking him seriously, some silly little girl who won’t listen to his well-intended warnings. She is. She just thinks he’s stupid. And she really wants him to fuck her right now. For the sake of the argument that apparently everyone without a degree is useless, she indulges him, “You could go to college.”

Bellamy actually rolls his eyes at her, and she revels in it. Unfamiliar glumness already making place for something she recognizes, a spark that makes him look more alive, that always comes out when she pushes at him. “I’m twenty-six, Clarke.”

“So what?” She shrugs, folding her arms over her chest, and if it comes across a little petulantly, so be it. “Kane would pay for it, if you asked him to.” Her face softens despite her annoyance with him, tipping it slightly to the side as the corners of her mouth quirk up, teasingly pushing her foot into the back of his thigh. “I know it’ll cost you some of that enormous pride, but considering the great amount you have...”

His eyes flash darkly, fingers pressing into her skin more forcefully, and she knows she’s said the wrong thing. “And what if I don’t want to go to college?”

“That would be fine too,” Clarke answers simply, then scooches forward on the table just a little, wrapping her arms around his neck so their chests are pressing together. He comes willingly, although he manages to keep his face straight. She holds his gaze as she languidly leans in to press a kiss to the white scar on his lip, mirroring him earlier. Lips still grazing his skin as she speaks, “I don’t need you to marry me, Bellamy.” He doesn’t move, but she can see his throat work, the fast flutter of his carotid. She pecks his bottom lip next, chest flush against his, before pulling back completely, tucking her damp hair behind both ears, making sure his eyes are still on hers as she insists, batting her lashes, “I just want you to fuck me.”

Bellamy takes her wrists before they drop away entirely and she can lean back against the wall again, holding her in place. He isn’t actively pulling her closer, but he doesn’t want her to get away from him either. Progress. A short, dark chuckle rumbles in his chest, and she can tell his restraint is starting to wear thin. “Straight to the point like always.”

Her eyebrows lift, ready to collect her win, and then she notices it’s still there, that small sliver of resistance, the edge of self-loathing, and her face falls, just a little. “I’m going to regret telling you this, but in all the years I’ve known you—”, _you’ve been my brother_ , “—I’ve only ever been able to discover one flaw.”

Even he sounds skeptical, lips slightly curling up in amusement. “One?”

Clarke twists her wrists out of his grip gently, instead wrapping her fingers around the drawstring hanging from his swimming trunks. “I mean you’re stubborn, but some girls find that charming.” She lifts her shoulders lazily, hissing through her teeth as if in thought. “Serious anger issues, but those could be written off as you being passionate. You’re really, out-of-your-mind arrogant but even that could mistakenly be confused for confidence.” Slowly, his grin keeps growing, no matter how hard he tries to hide it, and it makes her swell with pride, makes her cunt throb longingly with how truly close it is now to getting what it wants. Keeps her tone as if bored, not stupidly fond. “You’re possessive and overprotective to a fault, but again, that gets some girls hot.”

The tips of his ears red, he scoffs, gruff. “You’re already getting in my pants, Griffin.”

“Shut up,” Clarke retorts simply, half a laugh in her voice, tugging on one of the strings, and the sudden movement must do something to the fabric covering him, because he tenses, gritting his teeth together. 

On a more serious note, her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and her gaze softens as she looks up at him, forcing it to keep a stern edge to assert the severity of her words. She didn’t even realize it, doesn’t know how it happened, didn’t even realize how well, but she _knows_ him. “You refuse to let people help you. You’d rather shut them out and push them away than let them do something for you.” She lets the words settle between them for a moment, drinking in the uncomfortable look on his face, dawdling in the affectionate pressure smack in the middle of her chest, making it feel harder to get air into her lungs. “I don’t know what you’re afraid of, but—” A small, hurried intake of breath, and her eyes flicking towards the couch in front of his bed, as if she might not ever get it out if she doesn’t now, if she looks at him too long, “You deserve to be taken care of, too.”

There’s only a beat of silence, before he’s digging his fingers in her side playfully, making her squirm away and breaking some of the heavy tension hanging in the air around them. He can no longer hide his smirk, and Clarke has to try very hard to sell the annoyed look on her face as she swats his hands away. “Did you finally take that psych class this semester?”

“Two flaws,” Clarke corrects herself, deadpan. No longer completely faking the annoyance. “Terrible jokes.”

“Seriously, that was some blockbuster movie speech.” He’s still smirking, turning more smug by the second, and she feels the familiar urge to punch him again, or maybe show him up against a wall and kiss it off him. His fingers walk the heated flesh of her thighs teasingly, stopping just before they reach the strings on her hips, tips barely touching them. “All that because you’re horny?”

She covers his hands with hers, slowly guiding one of them to her centre. She holds his dark gaze, biting her lip until his hand is cupping her warmth completely. “All that so you’d finally do something about it.”

Bellamy grins, genuine, but it’s just a second she gets to revel in it before it dims, and he’s looking at the floor, free hand tugging on his ear, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know, Clarke,” he sounds quiet, resigned. “Maybe this really _is_ a bad idea.”

From all the girls she’s witnessed sneaking from his room at the crack of dawn, seen pass by in his instagram stories, had to listen to Octavia complain about to her on the phone, she figures none of them have ever had to work _this_ hard for it. She doesn’t know if she should feel special or offended. 

“Probably,” Clarke agrees with half a shrug, surprising him. She straightens a little, her lower back hollowed out, a dangerous look in her eyes. “But you like that, don’t you?” Completely aware of the hoarseness of her own voice, one of her finger trails down his chest torturously slowly, her knees opening wider as if to draw him. Continuing on as if she’s naming products on a grocery list, slight pout on her lips, “Being no good for me. Corrupting a good, innocent little girl. _Ruining_ me.”

His abs flex beneath the trail she leaves, and she smirks, lifting her eyes to meet his. His are half-lidded, full lips slightly parted as his breaths leave his mouth with harsh pants. 

“Isn’t that what you promised me?” Clarke presses after a beat, batting her lashes at him challengingly, nails toying with the coarse hairs just above the waistband of his shorts. “That you’d ruin me for anyone else?”

Bellamy’s mouth takes hers forcefully, and he practically tears her bathing suit top off her, roughly pulling at the knot on her neck and at her back until they come undone. She moans into his mouth as he paws at her tits with big calloused hands, a satisfied feeling blooming in the middle of her chest at finally winning him over. 

A few greedy kisses down her neck, sucking on a spot just below her jaw before he’s kissing her again. Tongues sliding together, fast and hot, full of want and need, until they’re both gasping for breath, pulling back slightly, panting into each other.

“You weren’t lying,” he grumbles into her mouth darkly as his fingers push aside her bathing suit and easily dip inside her, just one at first, making a sound that would have been embarrassing if this wasn’t already officially the weirdest fucking sexual experience she’s ever had. Addicting, too. 

Head thrown back in ecstasy, Clarke’s mind is too clouded to come up with something witty in return except for a small moan in acknowledgment of hearing him. His thumb presses down on her clit, sending a sharp shock of pleasure up her spine, enough to make her flinch. The constant will-they-won’t-they has her keyed up, tension pulling tight in her lower belly with just a few simple touches. 

He just pumps into her a few times before he’s getting down on his knees, Clarke’s eyes already rolling into the back of her head at the thought of his tongue. The memory of those text messages that started this all. The way he said he wished he could taste her. Fire burns hot within her, then Bellamy licks into her, and all thoughts are gone. He adds a second finger to her tightness, crooking them just slightly every time he moves them back inside of her. 

Although she struggles to keep her eyes open, the sight of his face being buried in her pussy has her buck up her hips, making him chuckle against her sensitive bundle of nerves before he sucks on it. The table creaks with the way she’s squirming on top of it, fingers weaving their way into his hair desperately trying to allow herself some semblance of control, seek out some kind of purchase.

Every earnest push of his tongue, every lick, every gentle bite has her wringing, has soft cries spilling from her lips, even has her do something she once told him she would never do, “Please, Bellamy.” 

Cheeks flushed, chest heaving, her orgasm hits her hard and unexpectedly fast. It’s overwhelming in the best way. Keening in pleasure as he continues to work her through it, tugging on his hair harsh enough it must be painful. The incessant pull of his mouth draws out her pleasure, unraveling the tension stretched through her body. 

She must blackout, or have some out of body experience, because she only comes back to herself when she starts to register the soft pressure of his mouth, slowly kissing his way back up her stomach. Her limbs are soft and pliant under his hold, and she’s still panting, convinced like she might never catch her breath. 

Bellamy looks incredibly smug as he looks up at her from where he’s sucking a mark into her breast, his mouth and chin wet with a mixture of his own saliva and her juices. Before he can say anything she knows will be incredibly annoying she’s already tugging on his jaw, connecting their mouths. It seems to distract him sufficiently, his hand raking through her hair, tilting her head back enough for him to deepen the kiss. 

They make-out like that for a while, her heart rate calming significantly under the spell of his soft, warm mouth. Lip slanting together, finding a pacing both are satisfied with. The fire within her steadily builds again, despite her earlier release, despite getting what she pretended was all she wanted. He makes her greedy, hungry body demanding more and more. Him.

His hands grope blindly around the back of her thighs, pulling her closer. As soon as his hard cock brushes up against her core, it’s as if the fire roars alive again, bigger and hotter than ever before, and Clarke needs him now. 

Bellamy seems to understand wordlessly, once again lifting her off the table and setting her down on her feet. Her legs feel unstable underneath her, but he steadies her with two hands on her waist, a concerned look in his eyes as he checks her face. 

Clarke’s heart flares and stutters, melting all the while, and she realizes she’s incredibly screwed. Satisfied she’s found her footing, he leads her to his bed a dozen feet away from them, pushing her backwards, only slightly stumbling.

She kicks off her bikini bottoms completely before falling down onto his bed with a slight bounce, biting down on her lip as she watches him take off his trunks. The badly lit dick pics didn’t do him enough justice. The sight of him — curved and thick and glistening at the top — has her cunt clench around nothing in anticipation, aching to be filled.

Bellamy crawls on top of the bed, hands resting on either side of her head. The first thing he does is lean down and kiss her again. Clarke’s stomach does a low flip, not expecting this kind of open affection from him, all soft warmth and tender reassurance in his kisses. Her lips part beneath his with a small gasp of surprise, welcoming his tongue, hands tugging at his shoulder blades to bring him even nearer. She loves the feel of his solid weight against her, on her.   
  


The press of their lips turns frantic fast, their hands exploring their bodies. Holding her gaze with his darkening eyes, his cock brushes right up against her slit. She spreads her knees further, hips bucking into him slightly, edging him on. She’s losing her mind with want, with need. Just has to have him inside of her already. 

Fingertips gripping her hips, her own nails digging into his forearms, he finally pushes into her heat excruciatingly slow. Her breath hitches, stuttering like her heart as he enters her inch by inch. Their eyes remain locked — it’s finally happening. 

He’s big, so fucking big it should scare her, but Clarke’s walls stretch and expand easily to accommodate him, still more than wet enough for it not to be too painful. Groans spill from both of their lips as he reaches the hilt, immediately rocking into her. She feels so full, and it’s so right. So perfect. 

Suddenly, he pulls back his hips and slams back into her without warning. The abrupt movement sends her pulse skyrocketing, a loud squeak escaping her mouth. Her eyes snap up to meet his again, and not at all to her surprise, he’s smirking. Fucking asshole.

Clarke glares at him, but most of the heat is lost when he pulls his hips back again, slamming in harder than before, building the pressure inside her monumentally. She meets him on the next thrust, moving with him. As punishment, she clamps down around him, hard, rolling her hips just a little, giving it as good to him as he is giving it to her. 

The growl that spills from his lips satisfies her immensely, but she doesn’t get to linger in it long as he twists his hips slightly, hitting that special spot that completely blanks her mind every time, a wave of pleasure rolling over her body as she comes. 

Her toes curl, her lips parting in a silent gasp as he bends closer, pressing a hot, wet kiss along her collarbone. His fingers intertwine with hers, holding hers up above her head. It sends a thrill up her spine, a new crescendo already building within her which each movement of their hips. Sweat beads on his skin, warm against her chest, her nipples hard as they press up against him with each thrust. She feels as if all of her nerves are exposed, skin jittery, the air electric. 

Her body trembles, on the edge of something, maybe even far beyond it, but he keeps going, one hand releasing hers so he can reach down and thumb at her clit. It triggers a second orgasm immediately, stars bursting behind her closed eyelids as her back arches, walls squeezing him hard. One, twice more, and he’s spilling himself inside her. A small groan and he’s collapsing on top of her quaking body, their breathing slowly but surely returning back to normal. 

Bellamy rolls off of her, and it’s only when he slips out of her and she feels the stickiness of their combined cum drip from her, that she remembers they probably should’ve used a condom. He exhales sharply through his nose, pinching the bridge of his nose before rubbing both hands over his face. “Fuck, this sucks.”

Clarke can barely bite back a surprised laugh in time, slowly turning her head to look at him better. There’s an ache between her thighs she thinks might never ease, that’ll just be something she has to live with now. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” he says, chuckling lightly as he rolls onto his side. There’s a beat and then his hand comes up, palm cupping her cheek, fingers brushing over the soft skin, mapping her face, a longing in his eyes she can’t look away from. A sudden burst of shyness mixed with shame overwhelms her, making her avert her eyes down to his throat instead of at him. The realization that she longs for him just the same, this beautiful, amazing, caring guy who she is not supposed to long for. Not like this. Not when he is supposed to be her brother. A harsh intake of breath, and he adds, voice trailing off, “I just wish—”

  
Her gaze flickers back up at him, affection bounding inside her in a way she knows she should try to repress. If only they’d met under different circumstances, if these feelings she recognizes within him and are swirling inside of her weren’t wrong. But they didn’t, and they are. This should be a one-time thing. It shouldn’t have been anything to start with, but they can’t keep calling it a mistake if they willingly let it happen. It can _never_ happen again. No matter how much she wants it to. It’s wrong. If someone were to find out, it would break their parents’ hearts. Octavia would never speak to them again. She would be able to live with it, but Bellamy—it might break him. 

Clarke’s lips quirk up just a little, sad, hand coming up to squeeze his wrist. “Yeah, me too.” A desperate, pathetic part of her has to try. “But that doesn’t have to mean—”

They have to stop. 

“It should,” he presses, knowingly, some of that dark, authoritative tone back. 

Clarke nods against his palm. She’s never been able to see him as her brother, never felt any sisterly feelings towards him in the way she should. Maybe now she finally understands why. Why she let this happen, too. Why she’ll let it happen again. “But we won’t.”

Now she knows what it feels like — _I can’t stay away from you —_ the pull is too strong, or she is too weak, but she knows it’s the same for him. Sees it in the softness of his eyes when he looks at her. They could pretend, say they won't end up back here next time, but at the very least they've always been honest with each other.

“No, we won’t,” Bellamy echoes, defeated, letting off her face to twirl a strand of her blonde hair around his finger absentmindedly. 

Carefully, she shifts onto her knees, then keeps her hair to the side as she mouths her way down his abdomen slowly. He shudders beneath her, and it makes her pulse with satisfaction. It's too good to ever give up.

“Maybe you could convince me,” Clarke teases, pressing a kiss to his already rapidly hardening head. “That this cruise would be worth it after all.”

He grins, pulling her up to meet his mouth, murmuring against her lips in between kisses, “We’re gonna have so much fun this summer.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> song in title is so it goes by taylor swift in honour of my pseud of course. fun fact: my least fave song off rep (i pretend new years day doesnt exist). 
> 
> thanks for reading! and i'm very sorry....


End file.
